


Cherish

by die_schoenste_aller_Hexen



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Hair Washing, M/M, Marathon Sex, Massage, South Downs Cottage, Subspace, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, ambiguous genitalia, reader’s choice of efforts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22591777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_schoenste_aller_Hexen/pseuds/die_schoenste_aller_Hexen
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley engage in some loving aftercare. A Nice and Accurate Fanfic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 127





	Cherish

Panting, Aziraphale sat back on his heels and admired his handiwork.

Crowley sprawled out on the disheveled sheets, legs spasming weakly from his last orgasm. His flushed torso was soaked with a mixture of their sweat and come; his fingers finally unclenched from the blankets. His mouth was slack, and drool coated his chin from the last time Aziraphale had face-fucked him. Judging from his glazed, somewhat crossed eyes, he wasn’t wholly conscious.

Aziraphale wiped sweat from his face. Not bad.

This session hadn’t approached their record (78 hours, with the occasional half hour break; power naps for Crowley, snacks for Aziraphale) but had been intense all the same. He hadn’t tracked their orgasms; usually they finished with three or four each, but this time Crowley had at least doubled the norm. Aziraphale took a moment to preen at a job well done.

Once his breathing returned to normal, he crawled alongside his demon, careful not to jostle him. “Crowley?” he whispered, setting a hand on his shoulder. “You there, my love?”

Crowley mewled.

“I think we’re finished for today, then,” Aziraphale said, slipping his hands beneath Crowley and lifting him off the soiled sheets.

Mindfully he backed off the bed and examined the mess they’d made. Easy enough to fix; a finger snap resulted in clean bedding, nicely turned down for when they returned.

Aziraphale hadn’t shared this yet, but he loved taking care of Crowley after a long session together. Sure, it was wonderful pounding the brains out of his love, and getting pounded in return. The main event was always enjoyable. Being that close to Crowley, seeing him experience such pleasure and knowing that he was the cause of it … Aziraphale could never get enough, not after all these centuries of wanting and not having.

But the afterglow of a marathon session allowed them a different pleasure, languid and syrupy sweet. In his trancelike state, Crowley was at his mercy, and Aziraphale could pamper him all he wanted.

Despite the recent changes in their relationship, Crowley remained aloof and withdrawn, rarely showing emotion unless they were drunk or in bed. Aziraphale knew the demon struggled with showing vulnerability. He didn’t doubt his love – nothing could be more obvious, really, Crowley _loved_ him. But it was so difficult to get him to accept Aziraphale’s love in return.

Not now, though. Crowley flopped insensate in his arms. Aziraphale was careful in making his way to the bathroom. Wouldn’t do to rouse him by banging his head against the doorjamb.

A miracle ensured the tub was half full and warm. He carefully stepped into the tub, gently sank down, and arranged them both. One side of the tub was inclined, just the right angle for Aziraphale to lean back comfortably. He situated Crowley between his legs, head back against his shoulder, and then rested his hands lightly on his love’s concave belly.

Aziraphale had been a fan of baths since the first time he visited Rome. (Later he particularly liked the natural springs one could find throughout Europe.) A long soak with good wine: a perfect pastime. Bathing was even more enjoyable these days with Crowley, so he ensured their cottage had a large sunken tub well stocked with oils and bath bombs. Crowley wasn’t fond of strong scents, so the water had a whiff of lavender, enough to be soothing.

Aziraphale settled his head on the tub’s lip and closed his eyes, enjoying Crowley’s weight atop him. Oh this was nice. Aziraphale felt he could stay like this forever. Holding Crowley, supporting him, in the quiet of their home. _Their_ home.

Their lovemaking hadn’t been particularly rough this time, just lengthy. (They had been experimenting, carefully, with some interesting human inventions, but they didn’t raid the toybox every time.) And normally they didn’t indulge in this … he wasn’t sure what to call it, a “post-coital ritual” perhaps. Usually Crowley took a nap and Aziraphale got a snack. More rarely, after a few minutes of cuddling, they’d manage to dress and go out to a meal or the theater.

Loving Crowley was intense. It was _emotionally_ powerful, every time. Aziraphale thought they must generate supernatural energy when they got wrapped up in one another; how else could they possibly expel the feelings they had inside? In the beginning, they couldn’t keep their wings from manifesting (and someone, they never determined who exactly, blew out the electricity for all of Soho).

And though he had never admitted it, sex was especially profound for Crowley. Part of his demonic nature, perhaps. He’d never been as fond of bodily pleasures the way Aziraphale was. Really, Aziraphale was a hedonist, taking delight in every sort of sensation. And not only the obvious ones — food and drink were high on the list, of course — but emotions like anticipation, expectation, relief, and satisfaction. Yes, he enjoyed a perfectly braised leg of lamb over a bed of roasted vegetables while physically eating the meal, but equally pleasurable was the wait for its delivery to his table, and the sense of fullness and satiation that came at the end.

Crowley’s relationship with his corporation was different. He liked dressing it, styling it, testing its alcoholic limits — but not necessarily pleasuring it. They’d had limited physical contact for most of their friendship, and Aziraphale knew that was one of the most difficult changes for Crowley. Not just touching, but acknowledging that he _wanted_ to touch, he desperately _needed_ to touch, and be touched in return.

Even allowing yourself to say those words. “I want.” “I need.”

It was easier during lovemaking, when they were both driven wild with desire. Easy when their passions were inflamed, when they couldn’t get enough contact, when they were senselessly chasing the deathless death. Crowley certainly didn’t show any hesitation then, Aziraphale thought, blushing.

But sometimes, the comedown was hard, and they felt wrung out inside. Physically, they could keep going for much longer (and both hoped one day to break that 78-hour record). But emotionally, it was exhausting, and tenfold for Crowley, who seemed to mentally discorporate for a while.

So Aziraphale got to indulge another hedonistic tendency, one they never talked about and only tacitly acknowledged: comforting, which Aziraphale really wanted to provide and Crowley really needed to accept. Even though they never said those things aloud.

“’Ziraph’le,” came a sleepy mumble.

“Yes, dear?” He mouthed at Crowley’s ear lobe, encouraging him to turn to his head to the side. His golden eyes were still glassy and unfixed.

The demon took a moment to think. “Th’nk ‘ooh.”

Aziraphale’s heart skipped several beats. “Oh, my dear boy. My love.” He tightened his arms slightly, fighting the urge to squeeze and never let go. “Always. _Always_.” He wasn’t sure what Crowley was thanking him for, or what he was promising, but it was irrelevant.

Now that Crowley showed signs of coming around, Aziraphale conjured a glass of cold water and held it to his lips. (Technically neither of them needed water, but the cold was soothing.) Once he’d finished, he sent it back to the kitchen, and picked up the sponge.

Thorough cleanliness could be achieved with a simple snap, of course, and most of the time that’s what they ended up doing. Washing only served a warm-up to the main event. Aziraphale soaped the sponge and swept it smoothly over Crowley’s chest, down his stomach, with a cursory skim over his thighs and groin. He spent more time on his back and shoulders, smiling at Crowley’s quiet sighs, so different from the noises he’d been making earlier.

Finally he dropped the sponge back in the water and hugged Crowley. “Ready for your hair?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

Crowley tolerated the bathing because he _loved_ getting his hair washed, and Aziraphale knew it.

He squeezed a dab of shampoo onto his palm and then began working it into Crowley’s hair. Thank the _Lord_ , the demon was growing it out after the Apoca-No-Thanks. Aziraphale had lusted after those curls since seeing Crowley on Eden’s wall. Now, he could _touch_ them, and they were as marvelous as he’d imagined. He loved brushing his hair, or braiding it, or (best of all) giving it a tug at the right moments.

At this moment, though, he was gentle, massaging Crowley’s scalp and grinning as Crowley started to make more sound. Aziraphale knew just where to apply the tips of his nails, and just when to dig in the pads of his thumbs, and just how slowly to drag the flats of his palms, all to drive Crowley mad. Once Crowley was a sudsy mess, Aziraphale used the pitcher to rinse.

“Feeling better?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Aziraphale popped the tub’s plug with his toe and the water began to drain. He moved to sit on the edge of the tub and took up their favorite brush. Crowley wiggled backwards to sit between his legs. His hair was about shoulder-length now — Aziraphale had insisted he let it grow naturally rather than miracle it. Waiting for it to reach its original length was sweet agony.

Of course, they still used miracles for the upkeep. They used a boar bristle comb with wide, staggered teeth and a hint of miraculous drying power. First Aziraphale patted Crowley’s head dry with a towel. Then he started near the ends, working on the tangles there. It was against his instinct, but Crowley had quickly corrected him the first time.

“You’ll damage the follicles!” he had scolded when Aziraphale had started at his scalp. “What are you, an animal?”

Aziraphale had the hang of it now. He moved from left to right, tending to the ends before switching to longer strokes. The hair dried with each pass, the waves becoming more apparent until the ringlets were popping out against his fingers. Finally he set the comb aside and tenderly ran his fingers through the silky locks. So soft and smooth, absolutely perfect. He kissed the top of Crowley’s head.

Crowley glanced over his shoulder, golden eye glinting wickedly. “Angel … ”

“Just admiring. Come here.”

Aziraphale helped him out of the tub. Crowley’s hands twitched, the barest question, and Aziraphale laughed. He outstretched his arms, and Crowley practically leapt into them. “Thank you,” the demon said, nuzzling into his neck.

“Yes, Heaven forbid you walk five meters.”

“You can’t expect me to walk after _that,_ can you?” His lips traveled north so he could nibble Aziraphale’s jawline.

“If you keep that up, we might have to start again.”

Crowley caught Aziraphale’s lower lip between his teeth. “Oh, the _horror_.”

With a parting kiss, he lay the demon on the bed, and Crowley arched against the sheets in a full body stretch. Aziraphale opened the bedside table drawer to find the lotion. “Do you want to start with your back or your front?”

“Back.” Crowley managed an ungraceful turn, flopping onto his stomach and cradling his head on folded arms.

It had taken a while to find a scent they both enjoyed (not surprisingly, Aziraphale preferred sweet scents while Crowley liked earthy ones), but they eventually settled on lemon and sage. Aziraphale squirted a generous helping into one hand and crept onto the bed beside Crowley. He began between his shoulder blades, where his wings were folded on a different plane of existence. Delicately he reached onto that plane and gave the wings a light caress. Crowley shivered beneath him.

This was a different body worship. It didn’t have the heat, that lightning spark that accompanied them in the haze of lovemaking. This was slower, more sensual, but not particularly arousing; they were both too tired for that. Instead, Aziraphale moved with deliberation down Crowley’s arms to his wrists, then up again, paying special attention to his elbows.

Aziraphale rubbed Crowley’s back, admiring his fair skin, dusted with perfect freckles. He skimmed over his hip bones (so skinny!) and across his buttocks, down his thighs and calves, and was careful not to tickle as he stroked the bottoms of his feet. In other times Crowley loved a foot massage, but not now. He sat back. “Turn over?”

With a grumpy noise Crowley did so, and Aziraphale started again. Up his hairy calves, over knobby knees, into the creases at his hip joints, along his sides, across his chest, until he gently smoothed his fingertips along Crowley’s neck, and finished with a chaste kiss on the lips.

He stood and rubbed the last of the lotion into his hands. Beneath him Crowley made a show of stretching and yawning, with a wiggle of his hips to boot. Aziraphale laughed. “You’re a monster.”

“You love it,” said Crowley with a sigh.

Aziraphale’s final snap produced pajamas. Despite his skin-tight day wardrobe, Crowley preferred more comfortable night things, so Aziraphale put him in an oversized t-shirt. For himself he favored more modesty, drawstring pants and matching top (tartan, naturally). Satisfied that everyone was comfortable, he slipped into bed and drew up the blanket.

Crowley knew his position, immediately rolling to his side and throwing an arm and leg over Aziraphale.

For a while all was silence. Crowley nestled his head into Aziraphale’s collarbones, and Aziraphale could feel the regular puffs of air as he exhaled.

This peace was a gift. This kind of serenity had been unknown to them for six thousand years. It had been an adjustment after spending millennia on short leashes, living in fear of forces much greater than themselves. In one crazy week, sixty centuries of subordination vanished, and they were both at sea, adrift in this newfound freedom.

On one of those first nights, when it was enough to lie side by side in bed, merely holding hands, Crowley had whispered, “I don’t deserve this.”

Fairness was a human invention. It was rational, a simple arithmetic problem: I do this, and I get that, and it is exactly what I deserve. Humans badly wanted to believe that the hardest working, most diligent, most intelligent people would get more (of whatever it was they desired) because of those attributes, while the lazy, the apathetic, the indifferent would get less, because that’s what they _deserved_. Many humans loved this idea of justice.

It didn’t apply to them, never had. There was only God’s judgment, inarguable and ineffable. Aziraphale had never considered whether he did or didn’t deserve a particular experience. Whatever happened is what happened and was therefore meant to happen; otherwise, it wouldn’t have happened. Seemed simple enough.

But, he realized then, not to Crowley. Crowley who had Fallen, who had never stopped questioning and pushing limits. Who might have spent his entire existence believing that everything that had happened to him was “deserved.” And who may have thought he hadn’t earned kindness, affection, forgiveness, and therefore would never have it.

Now was a new world (literally). The old rules didn’t apply. They were on _their side_. So Aziraphale had tightened his hold on Crowley’s hand, brought it to his lips, kissed his fingers, and said, “Oh my dear, you always have.”

Now, they had moved on to a little making out when Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled. Crowley giggled against his lips, hands roving over his belly. “Hungry, angel?”

Sensing that their snuggling was at an end, Aziraphale gave him one last squeeze. “I did work up a bit of an appetite.”

“I’ll cook you something.”

“Oh no, we can go into town and — ”

“My treat,” insisted Crowley, “I’ve got just the thing.” He strained upward to plant one last kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead before slithering over him and off the bed. As he sauntered out the door, he stretched his arms above his head, lifting the hem of his t-shirt to offer a peek at the lower swells of his buttocks.

Aziraphale smiled watching him go. He’d keep giving Crowley exactly what he deserved.


End file.
